Dance of the Harlequins
by insaneduck
Summary: First ever story, something really short I just thought up. Harlequin's intervene in fate, with a twist. I'd appreciate reading/criticisms.
1. Prologue: Exposition, whats that?

Umm…. Disclaimer I guess? Meh, sure: I don't own GW's stuff; I wish I did, but I don't.

And if you're a lawyer, please twist the disclaimer so it protects me, okay?

And I really apologize for any fluff mess-ups that are included here; this is a one-off on a topic I don't know much about. If there's a problem, PM me and I can edit it I guess.

* * *

_Reality, like the waves of a cold ocean, lapped at the sides of the mighty Craftworld Ul-Tian as it sailed through the stars, bearing the mere fragments of a dying race. It plowed, like an ancient leviathan, through the webway towards its goal._

_

* * *

_

"Farseer?"

The Eldar's face twitched, cat-like and inhuman, towards the lithe, gaudy figure entering her sanctum.

"Harlequin. How fortunate it is now you would choose now to seek my council."

She could not see the face behind the Harlequin's mask; yet ever fiber of her being told her she was subject to the greatest scrutiny.

"I do only as the Laughing God wishes, my Farseer." the Harlequin replied, performing an intricate bow to show its respect.

The Farseer bowed her head in response, before continuing solemly.

"And now we all hear his call. A hand is required, a hand even more precise than my own. Fate is as a tangled web, and these Mon'Keigh seek always to unravel it."

"So" came the ghostlike voice from behind the mask. "The Laughing God bids the dance resume once more. Fare well my Farseer, with fate's blessing we shall return."


	2. Chapter 1: Stuff happens

Insert "Please don't sue me GW" disclaimer here.

* * *

_Reality, like a thin, wet fabric, shifted and tore. From a hidden webway, the actors came. Their lithe forms danced, like the specter of death, amongst the shell holes and craters of this war torn world. The Harlequins had come to dance the play of fates once more. _

* * *

The webway gate came into existence for the briefest sliver of time, a faint light in the ruins of a destroyed forest. It was more than enough time for the four Harlequins making the Troupe to emerge, their shadowy forms appearing in the night. Pausing for the briefest of moments, they set off towards their goal.

It was immediately obvious to all in the troupe that this world was no stranger to war. The ground had massive furrows and craters, dug ever so violently by the war-blasts of Mon'Keigh guns. Even know, the Eldar could hear their massive retorts in the distance, like the thunder of some ancient god.

Interspersed amongst these craters was the innumerable detritus of war. Lengths of tangled wire trapped corpses in their death-pose, smashed equipment and rubble littering wherever the guns had not blasted them away. The smell of death pervaded the air as the Harlequins pressed forth, such things were beneath their notice.

As they neared the Mon'Keigh's miserable lines, the sounds of battle intensified. As they neared their goal, the troupe split with but a gesture. Their speed, combined with the distraction and the darkness, allowed them to slip between the warring humans, into the maelstrom. Whom they could not evade, they killed; slitting throats and piercing arteries with forms that resembled a dance as much as death.

* * *

The soldier knew he was going to die, knew his corpse would soon join his friends'. His weapon was useless, his ammo gone, his strength waning. There were two of his foes; the foes his leaders had said would collapse beneath him, his foes that would soon kill him. Gripping his empty rifle with every bit of bravery he had left, he charged from his cover towards his foes; facing his death, and screaming it down.

What he found would forever haunt him. A figure, its gaudy costume revealing its alien form, spinning with the grace no dance could match as it dispatched his two foes. With a final, showy flip, the creature finished its prey, landing in what seemed to be a victory pose. The soldier was frozen solid with fear as the… thing… gave a bow, and uttered from its mask a language that no man would ever speak. With a final flourish, it simply left, within seconds nothing more than a haunting memory.

Corporal Adolf Hitler dropped his jaw and screamed.


End file.
